A FINAL SPARK OF MAGIC FROM JOHN FRANCIS CROSS
Joy Waller, September 2022
When John Francis Cross passed away on Sept. 10, 2022, after a lengthy battle with cancer, I was heartbroken for a number of reasons. Primarily it was the loss of my friend: a companion with whom to roam enchanted urban rivers; to exchange colorful postcards and handwritten letters, even though we lived in the same city; to chortle over books and stories and strange passersby; and to attempt, clumsily on my behalf and elegantly on his, to console each other during our respective struggles. I also mourned the loss of an incomparable poet and novelist who would never again gift his peculiar and magical visions to a world that sorely needs it.
But one of my most immediate and distressing thoughts was: HE NEVER SENT ME THAT POEM.
Some backstory. I first laid eyes on John Francis Cross several years ago at Drunk Poets See God (DPSG), the longstanding poetry open-mic event held at Bar Gari Gari in Tokyo. He stood calmly onstage in a fuchsia sweater, a seemingly normal person… and then when he opened his mouth and heart to the audience… out poured a fanciful and bizarre mixture of fish that could talk, falsetto notes of song, sarcastic metaphors, and a soaring & perplexing beauty mixed in with wry asides and a variety of handmade props. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. I was completely riveted and the one thought that made it through to my overloaded brain was “YOU HAVE TO MAKE FRIENDS WITH THAT GUY.”
Fortunately, I was successful (more the result of destiny than my own flustered attempts), and John swiftly became a luminous presence in the Tokyo poetry scene, regularly awing, bewildering, and entertaining everyone who had the pleasure of seeing him perform.
At DPSG, there is always a monthly theme—“smoke”, “independence”, “it’s complicated”, etc.—that poets are encouraged to produce work in response to. I was consistently far too disorganized to ever do this, but John was a master at taking these themes and fashioning them into his own weird & spectacular vision. These efforts culminated in the publication of his second book, Drunk God Sees Poet, which features poems largely taken from the pieces he performed at these events.
DPSG took an indefinite hiatus in early 2020, with the advent of THAT THING THAT WON’T GO AWAY, and the poets of Tokyo languished in their apartments all across the city, scribbling poems in solitude and reciting them only to blank walls or (in my case) a receptive but ultimately puzzled cat.
Finally, after two long years, DPSG was set to make a triumphant comeback on Sept. 16, with myself and Samm Bennett as co-hosts. I was naturally over-the-moon excited about this, but my excitement was tempered by the fact that it seemed quite wrong to relaunch this event and not have John be a part of it. At this point he was bedridden in his home and forced to use an oxygen mask to help him breathe. I texted him in late August about all this and presented my plan: how about he write a poem, and I read it in his stead? Lovely! he responded. What’s the theme? And the somewhat tongue-in-cheek theme was RENEWAL OPEN.
John passed away on Sept. 10, and amid my grief was the sorrow that he’d never been able to text me that poem.
A couple of days later, Lawrie Hunter and I took a bus out to John’s apartment in Kanagawa, where his wife Mika greeted us and brought us inside to view his body lying in state. There was a buoyancy and lightness in that room, which I had not at all expected—a playfulness even. John’s spirit was alive and well and almost seemed to be teasing us as we sat there with our serious faces and our loss, paying our respects to a body that he no longer needed on his current adventure.
I asked Mika if John had left any of his writings behind, on the off-chance that I might get my hands on that poem I was hoping-against-hope he might have had the final energy to write… She told me he had requested that his notebook and pen be cremated with him, so that he could continue working on his current piece. Wow!! I absolutely could not argue with that! One of the most beautiful final wishes I’ve ever heard.
Later, Mika brought out a large stack of sketchpads that contained John’s drawings and artwork. These are incredible pieces in their own right, and I hope they will be organized into some sort of collection or exhibition soon…
I was idly flipping through one of these sketchbooks, filled with John’s signature bright colors and liberal splashes of rainbow-hued stars and fuchsia humans, when suddenly the pictures stopped and the remaining pages lay white and empty. I flipped to the end anyway and was about to hand it back to Mika when, on the final two pages, I saw a scrawl of words—not pictures—that were scribbled in pencil. I peered at it just briefly, thinking it might be private, when I caught the word… RENEWAL.
What!!!!!!!
I think I alarmed Mika, Lawrie, AND potentially the body lying peacefully in the bed with how loud I gasped. “Look at this, look at THIS!!” I shrieked. “He did it!! I found it!”
What are the chances of finding this final poem? Needle in a haystack at best. I was overwhelmed.
Mika ripped out the pages and gave them to me, insisting I keep them. Then Lawrie as well as John’s friend Ghiselle Camacho in Canada helped me decipher and transcribe these final scribbles, for which I am deeply grateful. The following week, at the DPSG open mic, I was able to perform it in his stead, as we had planned. It was a powerful moment and although a part of my heart is broken at the thought of his loveliness never again gracing our stage or our lives, another part is filled with wonder at a man who could compose such a poem in his final days and ensure, through his own gentle magic, that all of us who loved him would be able to hear the poignant message it contains. The poem is provided below. Thank you, John, for this, and for everything. I’ll see you on the astral.
RENEWAL OPEN
by John Francis Cross
Forget me when I was splendid
Embodied
Word made flesh
On the stage
And know I am open to renewal
And a different way of being
I’m in transition
Recumbent, dependent, paraplegic,
Several childhood oblivions
Floating on a stream of liquid morphine
To a tunnel leading to the silver space
Where I can meet any soul I want,
The monumental archway
Behind which is a garden, a paradise
I’m on the threshold
And when I enter, I’ll levitate from
Catheter, Enemas, Cannula
My body a loose skin
Bag of bones
A skull
Less than 30 kilos
Convenient for cremators
But I don’t think I’ll get a discount
Smoke
Atoms in the cosmos
Breath
(no more stages)
Only words
in the mouth of another person
Remember me
Like this
I’ll open up renewed
purified
